


hear the noise that moves so soft and slow

by dualce



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, M/M, Size Kink, but reluctantly of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dualce/pseuds/dualce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It might have been cream-colored, once, Bilbo thought, hand lingering lightly on the fabric, just enough to feel the coarse, short piles scratch at the tips of his fingers. Now, many seasons beyond its peak, the bed cover had darkened into a dingy, muddy brown that made Bilbo itch to think it against his bare skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hear the noise that moves so soft and slow

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as soulmate trope, but sort of moved into something else, maybe more along the lines of 'reluctantly arranged marriage,' with a side of smut.
> 
> I'm actually working on *another* Bilbo/Dwalin fic, if you can believe it, but somehow this didn't fit into the story? I dunno why. To make things harder for myself, probably.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Title taken from James Vincent McMorrow's song of the same name.

It might have been cream-colored, once, Bilbo thought, hand lingering lightly on the fabric, just enough to feel the coarse, short piles scratch at the tips of his fingers. Now, many seasons beyond its peak, the bed cover had darkened into a dingy, muddy brown that made Bilbo itch to think it against his skin.

There was no chair, anyways, so he sat on the bed, fully clothed, hands folding together on his lap only to twist nervously against each other a moment later. His feet did not quite reach the ground. Several candles flickered at the ends of the room, and there was no hiding the sparse, cheap, and unwelcoming chamber.

Bilbo squeezed his hands together. He should not have come up so soon; the waiting would fray his nerves beyond salvaging, at this rate. He wished he’d have thought to bring his pipe, or even his bag, to give himself something do. But it was down with the others. Safe, he hoped.

It seemed as if someone had heard his wishes, for within the next moment the scrape of Dwalin’s boots against the floor came through the hallway, loud enough for him to hear over the sounds of the inn. Purposeful, then, so that Bilbo could be prepared.

As prepared as he ever would be.

The door swung open, and Dwalin’s great bulk stepped inside. He kept eye contact without moving forward, but swung the door shut behind him.

Bilbo thought to say a greeting but could not bring himself to open his mouth. It was as dry as a straw roof on a hot summer day, and his throat worked as if he really was parched and yearning for a drink. Dwalin’s eyes were dark, flat, mouth pinched in its usual grim shape, and Bilbo thought briefly of those lips against his and shoved that image away immediately, flicking his eyes away to stare at one of the candle flames.

Dwalin finally moved towards him, stopping only to release the knuckledusters from his hands. He kept clothed, like Bilbo, and sat next to him, his weight dipping the mattress so Bilbo tipped into him, and he had to scrabble to keep upright. Doing so most likely looked harsh, he realized, as he settled himself further away from Dwalin, but the dwarf did not say anything.

He did look towards him, a little, head tilting down and eyes moving to the vicinity of Bilbo’s feet.

Neither of them spoke. A fit of nerves made Bilbo scratch at his upper lip. His other hand bunched into a fist in his lap. If anyone held the power of speech, it’d have to be him. Dwalin had never been one for words, not in the time that Bilbo knew him. He had oft wondered if it was because he was a hobbit; perhaps Dwalin had long and easy conversations with his brother or with Thorin, speaking in the tongue of his people, confident and sociable. He had laughed, once, when the dwarves had sung their song in Bilbo’s kitchen, fists pounding on the table and drink sloshing into his beard.

If Bilbo had known that would be his only memory of Dwalin’s smile, he might have preserved it better. Now he had only the grim countenance of Dwalin to look upon, as unhappy at their circumstance as Bilbo was. Or even more so, which made Bilbo feel worse, miserable and slightly sick.

“We should sleep,” Dwalin said, breaking the heavy silence so sharply that Bilbo nearly had a shock.

“What?” He said faintly, before his mind caught up to him. Dwalin was offering him an out, a kindness, perhaps. Or a way out for himself, without having to profess his true feelings on the matter of their coupling.

Bilbo was simultaneously relieved and annoyed. He wanted to jump at the chance to pretend the situation was different, comfortable or even desirable, but the rest of him simply wanted to get it over with.

Dwalin seemed to be checking some of his own annoyance, but barely. “You want for something else?” He said, and when Bilbo didn’t answer, beyond staring, his lip curled. “Thought so,” he said with a sneer.

Bilbo bristled. He wasn’t eager for this, but neither was Dwalin, and that, in his mind, should put them squarely on the same page. “I never said – ” He started, and flushed when he realized what that implied.

“Do you?” He said instead, sharply, and when Dwalin paused in the removal of his boots, he puffed up even further. “Because _I_ don’t think you do, either!”

Dwalin did not look at him, but slowly and methodically finished removing his boots until they fell with a thud onto the floor.

“Wrong,” he growled, straightening up to pierce Bilbo with those dark eyes. Bilbo had a brief moment to digest this startling admission before the dwarf spoke further.

“If you wish to know, you come find out.”

As Bilbo’s eyes widened, he shifted back onto the bed, reclining fully so his feet were nearly in Bilbo’s lap, folding his hands behind his head.

Bilbo could do naught but stare. He could have torn his curls out in frustration. Instead of properly going about this, taking their time, talking first or even just touching lightly, gently, letting him – _them_ – get used to it, Dwalin was _challenging_ him.

 _Dwarves_! Bilbo cursed in his head. He was split between indignation and haughtiness; what would it say if he got up and marched away? Bilbo could be saved from embarrassment, but he would also keep their situation at a stalemate. He could not bear either idea, and in a fit of Tookish impulse Bilbo crawled up to lay on top of him.

He barely covered the length of him, and felt even smaller when Dwalin’s knees rose to cradle his body. It was ridiculous how large the dwarf was, and how small Bilbo was in comparison. His waist pressed to Dwalin’s midsection above his belt, and his knees slid into the pockets of the dwarf’s hips. With his heart thudding a foxtrot’s tempo, he leaned forward. He found thin lips amongst the thick beard, and pressed against them. They parted, and Bilbo impulsively plucked his tongue between them, gently tasting. He expected metal, salt, and some sort of mineral tang, like the ores of the earth might taste, but got warmth instead, stickiness like a humid summer day, and something grainy and sweet, like bread.

Bilbo sighed, startled, and relaxed into Dwalin, drawn by the unexpected sweetness. All of a sudden Dwalin’s hand came behind him, looped against the length of his back, and squeezed his bum. Bilbo gasped, both in shock and at the sudden surge of desire, and went rigid. Dwalin’s hand immediately froze and moved away, and his booming voice shuddered through his chest into Bilbo, even as he spoke quietly.

“What,” he said in a gruff undertone, not exactly a question, and Bilbo shook his head. It was as close to an apology as he’d ever get.

“It’s not – ” Bilbo faltered. It wasn’t just the unexpected touch, it was the absurd situation they’d found themselves in. Bilbo was as small as a sparrow, and Dwalin as large as a bear, so ill matched in height and weight they were. And in everything else, too – Bilbo’s writing and letters and genteel clothes, all roundness and curves; and Dwalin in stark contrast: metal knuckledusters and battle tactics and a thousand shorn, blunted edges.

Bilbo rolled off of the dwarf, scrubbing a wrist across his brow. He missed the Shire so fully it was like a feverish, aching sickness throughout his bones. “This is ridiculous,” he blurted out, and in his bog of misery and homesickness he did not notice the way Dwalin went still next to him.

“It is because – not a pretty little elf, am I? I’m a dwarf. I know your kind have no love for ours,” he said, deep voice growing taut with anger.

Bilbo blinked behind his arm and then moved it out of the way so he could see Dwalin’s face growing thunderous. “What – no! It has nothing to do with _elves_.”

Dwalin remained unconvinced, although he had quieted down some. Bilbo rolled over onto his side and pushed his fingers into his collar. “It doesn’t matter that you’re a dwarf. It’s us! The size and the – everything! You could be a hobbit of the Shire, and you’d still be the biggest, most hairy and – and towering and rough, frightening – ”

Bilbo’s breathless rant ran out of steam on the last word, and he ended with a cough. “I mean,” he muttered awkwardly, but could not make himself take it back without speaking some untruth.

Dwalin relaxed a fraction, the lines across his brow ironing out. “I would not hurt you,” he said gruffly, touching one finger against Bilbo’s fist, buried in his jerkin.

The unexpected gentleness softened the edge of Bilbo’s frustration. “I know,” he said, even though he worried, with Dwalin’s size and strength, that it might happen anyways, by accident.

Dwalin seemed appeased by his words, and stroked very gently the knuckles of Bilbo’s fist. His eyes were low, half-lidded, studying the patterns of Bilbo’s waistcoat, seeming lost in thought. Bilbo took the opportunity to search his face, when Dwalin’s blazing eyes weren’t latched to his, intimidating him. He wasn’t the most attractive of dwarves, face scarred and tattoos foreign and menacing, but he’d been chosen for Bilbo, and was, in his own way, trying his best.

“I’ve never done this before,” Bilbo confessed, words tumbling out of his mouth unbidden. He squeezed his eyes shut, too self-conscious to watch Dwalin’s expression, certain that there would be entertainment or amusement at his expense. Or worse, pity.

Dwalin’s finger paused, and then his entire palm came to rest on top of Bilbo’s hand, warm against his skin. “I have not done this in a long time,” he said as quietly. 

Bilbo’s eyes opened. “We make a right pair, then,” he said with a small quirk of lips, and something softened in Dwalin’s light-blue eyes. Bilbo laughed, and the light blue melted into navy. The dwarf bent his head until their brows touched and their breaths mingled.

 _It’s not so bad_ , Bilbo wanted to say, for he was well aware that he was not Dwalin’s choice, either, but he did not want to speak of promises he could not keep. Neither did Dwalin, it seemed. That was a small thing to share, but at least they had it, and it was enough, for now.

Dwalin reached for him slowly, cupping his hand around Bilbo’s nape, and tilted his head. Their lips met again, and this time more eagerly, until Bilbo’s hands were twisted into Dwalin’s beard, and their breath had quickened when they parted. Dwalin rolled over top of him, and Bilbo’s eyes widened as he was reminded again of just how _large_ the dwarf was. It excited him and made him feel small, at the same time. They kissed again, growing more hurried, and this time when Dwalin’s hand found the flesh of his bum, and pulled him closer, Bilbo gasped and arched against him.

They parted soon enough, to fumble their clothes off, and with no armor to take off Bilbo was done first, feeling flushed under Dwalin’s eyes as he knelt on the bed. He went to speed up Dwalin’s movements, kissing and touching every freed bit of skin and hair until Dwalin was groaning and muttering, “ _Tease_ , little hobbit,” and Bilbo did not bother to hide his smile until Dwalin kissed it away. 

Skin against skin made Bilbo forget even more how strange their situation was, and he was soon caught up in touches and caresses. Dwalin was a little rough, fingers pinched here and there as he grasped and petted Bilbo, but it was new to them both, and that made Bilbo forgiving, and he was eager to keep the pace going. Instead he spoke little, keeping his mouth occupied, and Dwalin seemed to like it, making more noise than Bilbo had thought him capable of. 

“ _Oh_ ,” he said, when Bilbo sucked a mark into his shoulder, and “ _Ah_ ,” when he traced the tattoos along his ribs with his tongue. But none were so sweet to Bilbo’s ear as the surprised shout that came much later, followed very quickly by Bilbo’s own shivering gasp, muffled by Dwalin’s mouth.

Bilbo slowly caught his breath, sprawled against the dwarf’s chest. Now that the agitation and exertion were receding, he felt pleasantly drowsy, but the worry was creeping up on him again. He wondered how soon the strangeness between them would return. 

But he was surprised by Dwalin’s arm coming around suddenly to settle around his waist. Although this was done merely to arrange him into a more comfortable position, and Bilbo was miffed as he was turned upon his side, facing Dwalin, and folded snugly under his chin. Bilbo made his displeasure known, wiggling his toes and kicking against Dwalin’s shins, until the dwarf murmured, “Stop that,” and tucked a heel behind his legs to hold him in place. 

Bilbo, forced to stop, huffed a complaint against Dwalin’s hairy chest, and got a mouthful of coarse hair in return. With a resigned sigh – he could almost acknowledge he’d have to get used to this, some day – he wiggled a bit until his face was free. Finally he could close his eyes, contented, as pleased as he could be by the situation. Dwalin was warm and mostly soft and Bilbo was sated, and the Baggins in him asserted, practically, that the anxiety and uncertainty could be dealt with tomorrow.

Dwalin pulled the blanket around them both, dingy color and coarse fabric and all, but Bilbo could not bring himself to care, for once, and fell asleep instead.


End file.
